


Not a Victory March

by DachOsmin



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Blood Kink, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Drunk Sex, Hook-Up, Injury, Light BDSM, M/M, Victory Sex, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: The night of the destruction of the Death Star and a week after the battle of Scarif, Han Solo and Cassian Andor end up in the same bar.





	Not a Victory March

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



Han Solo returns to the rebel base on Yavin 4 a hero, the light of the death star’s fragments glittering in the sky above him like fireworks. The hangar bay is a festival: revelers throng amidst the landing ships; the people whirl by in a cloud of grins and watering eyes; everywhere there are shouts and peals of laughter.

Luke and Leia meet him first in a whirlwind of hugs and shouting. Then there’s the rebel leadership with their quiet smiles and benedictions, and then the others, the pilots and the engineers and the flight technicians and all the rest of them.

He gets buoyed to the nearest bar, and before he knows it there’s a drink in his hand and three more on the table in front of him. He reaches for his pocket, but the bartender immediately makes it clear that not only is he about to get very drunk, he’s not going to be paying for any of it. Hell, as Han scans the weeping, laughing crowd, he isn’t sure anyone is going to be paying for their own drinks tonight.

They start off with all the requisite toasts, of course. Jubilant ones: to the rebellion! To Luke! To Han! To Leia! And then the somber ones: to Alderaan, to absent friends and lovers, to the pilots that didn’t make it back and the rebel prisoners that died in the bowels of the death star when it tore apart in the sky. And then once again to the rebellion, to the future. To hope.

Everyone wants to hear about Han’s final run. He tells the story once, then three times, then five. And even though he adds and embellishes the details, covers up the faults- he’d never really meant to run away, that was all a plan, a feint- no one seems to mind.

He’s never felt joy quite like this. Everything is brighter and fiercer and more beautiful, and Han is so high on the feeling that it takes him a while to notice the man at the bar.

To be fair, he’s hard to notice. He’s tucked out of the way; his chair is wedged between a crowd of revelers and the join where the bar meets the wall.  He’s hunched over, arms crossed and tucked in on themselves. There’s a glass in front of him but he doesn’t touch it. He’s staring into space instead, eyes unfocused and distant.

Han isn’t sure when the man arrived, whether he’d been there the whole time or only slipped in later. Either way, it’s not until Han’s somewhere between shots three and four that he finally sights on him. And once he’s seen him, he can’t stop looking.

He pulls the eye. Not obviously, like a magnet, but in a soft and understated kind of way. It’s the kind of attraction where you don’t mean to look, but then you just so happen to glance over- again and again and again.

Han takes a thoughtful sip of whatever’s in his cup and decides that there are two reasons for this.

One: the guy is beautiful. And Han’s not just saying that because he’s always been a sucker for brunettes, especially the ones with dark eyes like that, big enough to drown in.

And two: unlike everyone else in the bar- probably everyone else on the _planet_ \- the guy looks absolutely devastated. All this joy is swirling around him, but not touching him. It’s like a curious patch of black where a star should be.

There’s an urge to go over and talk with him, pick him apart and figure out what hurt him, maybe even fix it, at least for a night. Han suppresses the urge. He’s already flirted with death today, and whatever tragedy is lurking in the man’s heart, Han wants no part in it.

But still, he can’t help looking.

***

Things get brighter and wilder and sweeter as the night goes on.

Women, and some men, try to pull him out of his seat, whispering things about bedrooms and bunks and not having any underwear on. It’s very, very tempting, and honestly kind of overwhelming. He’d die before admitting it to anyone, but it’s more attention than he’s gotten in… ever. There’s worship in their eyes when they look at him, whether in quick glances through the fall of their lashes or in long heady stares over the rim of their drinks. It’s like he’s something more than human. A hero.

Even though he hasn’t gotten laid in eons, and even though nothing gets him hornier than a good fight, he sticks to flirting. He ignores all the subtle and not so subtle invitations to private quarters, janitor’s closets, and from one very curvy pilot, the cockpit of her x-wing. He can’t say why, exactly. Something just stops him every time.

The crowds thin as the night slides into the early hours of the morning.

Luke and Leia stagger off together, and his heart twinges a bit even though he’s happy for them. The tempting pilot leaves with the bartender. The other revelers stumble away, one by one, until it’s just him and a handful of engineers left. And the man at the bar.

It feels like a sign.

Han makes his way over with a swagger that is definitely not a stumble, drink hanging from his hand.

“The name is Han. Han Solo.” He lets himself smile, that guileless, bright smile that men and women from here to Coruscant know and love. “What’s your name?”

The man tilts his head in consideration. There’s a calculus on his face for a moment, like he’s trying to remember how to answer the question. Odd; he hadn’t seemed that drunk. “Cassian,” he finally says.

 “Cassian,” Han says, tasting how it sounds on his tongue. Exotic. He can’t help but think how it would sound as a moan or a cry, and licks his lips. “Well, Cassian. Do you come here often?”

Cassian looks distinctly unimpressed. “It’s the only bar on the base.”

Fuck, but he’s bad at this kind of thing when he’s drunk. Why hadn’t he just gone off with the x-wing pilot? He takes a sip of his drink and tries to pretend he’s the hero he’d felt like earlier in the night. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Cassian sets down his drink on the bar with a heavy thunk. “What do you want?”

Han offers him a languid shrug. “Maybe I just want to cheer you up.”

“Cheer me up,” he says flatly.

“You look like you could use it.”

Cassian laughs bitterly. “You a fucking interrogation officer or something?”

Well, serves him right for trying to be friendly. “Whatever it is, you should let it go,” Han says. “For tonight at least. We won.”

Cassian’s hands spasm around the handle of his mug. “We did win, he whispers. “We did.”

And then he’s blinking rapidly, and his eyes are welling up with tears.

All the warning klaxons in Han’s head start blaring. Because this? This is really not what he’s great at. He rests a hand on Cassian’s shoulder gingerly, and when the gesture isn’t immediately rebuffed, begins to rub small circles on his back. “Do you… do want to talk about it?”

Cassian draws in a shaky breath. “Fuck no.”

Okay, he says that, but the guy looks like he’s barely holding it together, and it’s not like he knows Cassian, but he gets the sense that Cassian rarely, if ever, breaks down. “Are you sure? Because it seems like-“

“Han,” Cassian says, cutting him off. “Look at me.”

And then it’s like he flips a switch; there’s really no other way to describe it. The crying, the shaky breathing, the tremors in his hands- they all just stop. His movements become fluid, sensual.

“Do you really want to just talk?” Cassian asks, his voice a low purr. And suddenly he’s twisting into Han’s space, eyes dark beneath the fall of his lashes. His hands feather up Han’s thighs, resting just beneath his hips like a promise. It’s a change so abrupt, so complete, that Han should have whiplash- except the blood going to his brain has all been diverted somewhere else.

“Um, what-?” he hears himself say, his voice high and breathless in his own ears.

Cassian leans forward, pressing the front of their bodies together. His lips hover just a hair above Han’s ear, so that Han can feel the heat of each exhale against his skin. “Because I don’t want to just talk,” Cassian whispers.

“Oh,” Han says dumbly. He reaches up to cup Cassian’s cheek before he can help himself, feels a thrill when Cassian doesn’t pull away. He swallows and tries to remember what he usually says when he’s trying to charm someone into his bed. “I- um, in that case, can I interest you in another drink, maybe a walk down by the river-“

Cassian laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “That’s- you’re sweet,” he says, and sounds almost surprised. And then abruptly he’s drawing away. He leans back in his seat, and he’s once again looking at Han with that same empty face he had at the beginning of the night.

 “You’re sweet,” Cassian says again. “So anyway, here’s the rules: no injuries to my face or hands, anything else is fair game. I prefer bottoming, but I can fuck you if you want. My safeword is ‘ _Draven_ ’ and my room is two halls over.” He slides off the bar stool in a jerky motion, wincing like it pains him. “Coming?”

Han is vaguely aware his mouth is hanging open. He’s horny and confused and drunk, and feels distinctly like he’s on the receiving end of the kind of swindle he’s normally the one running himself. “You’re blunt.”

“I don’t like pretending unless I have to,” Cassian says, turning towards the door with a shrug.

Han scratches his head, trying to think, to remember… “What is it you said you did again?”

The question strikes Cassian as funny for some reason; he lets out a bark of genuine laughter. It’s a nice laugh, and oh, Han is so fucked. “I’m on the clean-up crew,” he says. “For the really big messes.”

Han opens his mouth to ask more, but the comm link on Cassian’s jacket suddenly flares to life with a hiss of static. _“It’s Draven, I know you’re listening-“_

Cassian unhooks the comm link gingerly, like he’s handling a venomous snake.

_“-You haven’t filed your reports, you haven’t done your debriefs-“_

Han winces in sympathy. He’s gotten chewed out enough by Jabba to know this song and dance. Evil supervisors are the same the galaxy over. “Hardass boss?”

_“-Scarif was barely a week ago and you’ve already waltzed out of medical without-“_

“Something like that.” Cassian offers him a wry smile. Han likes it, and decides Cassian really should smile more. Maybe Han can help with that.

 _“-You are not handling this well, you are not handling it at_ all _-“_

Cassian abruptly plops the comm link into a stray pitcher of ale sitting on the bar. The yelling on the other end dissolves into a hiss of crackling and smoke.

“Is your boss going to get on your ass about that?” Han asks.

Cassian blinks, like he’d forgotten Han was there. “Yeah, probably. Let’s go.”

***

Cassian leads him to an out of the way hall in silence, ignoring him so completely that Han starts wondering if he imagined all those heavy looks back at the bar. He’s on the verge of saying something when Cassian stops in front of a door, keys in a code, and gestures for Han to enter. Han steps through, taking in the spare furniture, the undecorated walls, the collection of blasters on the bedside table. “Nice place,” he makes himself say. “Bit small, but real estate these days-“

The door clicks shut behind him and immediately Cassian is on him, shoving him up against the wall. It’s a testament to how long it’s been since he’s gotten laid that his body reacts like he’s been attacked at first. His hands ball into fists and he’s flinching, ready for a sucker punch to the jaw. “What-“

Cassian cuts him off with a bruising kiss at the side of his mouth. Cassian’s hands are raking down his side, digging into his hips and yanking their bodies closer.

“You don’t- you don’t waste any time, do you?” Han manages to get out between kisses.

Cassian responds by biting down on Han’s lower lip and shoving his thigh between Han’s legs. “Shut the fuck up.” And then he’s rubbing their bodies together harder, faster, and his kisses are so desperate that Han is dizzy from lust and lack of oxygen. Their teeth clack; Han curses; Cassian bites at his lip once again.

It’s hot; it’s really fucking hot, and if Han doesn’t pump the breaks this is going to end embarrassingly fast.

He pulls away with a monumental effort, gasping for air. “Hang on, hang on,” he pants. “No rush. We have all night.” He’s going to romance this guy if it kills him. “I want to see you.”

“You really don’t,” Cassian says with a flat stare, somewhat at odds with his flushed cheeks, his wet and swollen lips.

Han puts on the puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Cassian hesitates for a second- maybe he’s shy? And then he’s stripping his clothes away with brisk efficiency: boots first, tossed into the corner, then pants, then shirt.

And-

“What the _fuck_ ,” Han yelps.

“I told you,” Cassian says.

Han can’t say anything, all he can do is stare. Because… well. It’s not that Cassian doesn’t have a nice body: Han can make out smooth planes of skin and cords of muscle. It’s just that it’s hard to tell underneath all the fucking trauma.

He’s a mess. There are gashes, barely healed, spidering up both of his arms and across the planes of his chest. There are the telltale marks of IV lines in the hollow of his wrist, and the sticky residue of bandages and casts ringing the worst of the cuts. And beneath it all is his skin: a mottled canvas of yellow and purple, green and blue. His whole body is one massive, massive bruise.

Cassian licks his lips. “Do you want me to put my shirt back on?”

Once again, _what the fuck._ Han is abruptly reminded that they’re both half naked, and he’d been planning on fucking Cassian into the mattress about thirty seconds ago. “What are you thinking- you shouldn’t be- you should be in _traction,”_ he hisses.

Cassian shrugs. “Are you kicking me out?”

What the fuck does Han even say to that, and anyway, it’s Cassian’s room-

Cassian takes advantage of his speechlessness to kneel, and then he’s leaning forward, his head nuzzled against Han’s thigh as he licks a long stripe over the fabric of Han’s crotch.

And now Han can’t talk for an entirely different reason. Fuck, this is messed up. He can’t do this; this is wrong; something about this whole thing is off-

But Cassian’s tongue is insistent, and his hands are fiddling with the clasp of Han’s pants, and as Cassian draws his cock out and laves a stripe down the side with the flat of his tongue, Han finds it very hard to say anything at all.

“Finally,” Cassian mutters, hooking his hands around the back of Han’s thighs as he leans in to lick at the soft skin of Han’s inner thigh.

From this angle Han can see that the bruises that extend down his back, the worst of them encircling long gashes barely scabbed over. Han hisses, revulsion warring against the pleasure kindling in his belly. “Did a fucking bantha land on top of you?” he grits out. Something tickles his memory and he fights at the lust and the drunkenness, trying to think. “Wait, how- you said you were a cleaner-“

Cassian pulls back for a second and laughs. “It was a really big mess,” he says, and then he’s swallowing down Han’s cock before Han can say anything more.

And Han can’t argue or ask or say anything at that point, because everything is suddenly hot and wet and aching _._ It’s all he can do to keep himself upright: his mouth falls open with a shudder and he throws his head back against the wall. It hurts, but nowhere near enough to dull the pleasure of Cassian’s wicked tongue.

His hands knot themselves in Cassian’s hair of their own accord, and even though he wants to be gentle, he can’t help but jerk when Cassian hums low in his throat.

Cassian moans around his cock like he’s getting off on it, and from a quick glance Han can see that his pants are tented and he’s jerking forward into the empty air whenever Han pulls at his hair. _Fuck._

Cassian pulls away just as his pleasure begins to spike, and Han can’t help but sway forward at the loss.

“No,” Cassian says, licking his lips like he’s chasing down every taste of Han’s precum. “I want you to come inside of me.”

And okay, yeah, that’s fine, that’s great, that’s fucking fantastic. Han opens his mouth to say… something, probably something really inane, but Cassian shuts him up with another kiss before shoving him towards the bed.

Han doesn’t protest, just watches with wide eyes as Cassian strips the rest of his clothes off and gets on the bed. He’s business-like about it: legs spread, on his hands and knees, facing away from Han. It’s not what Han would have chosen, but he’s learned his lesson by now about arguing with Cassian.

“You don’t do things by half measures,” he says instead as he pulls his own clothes off and kneels on the mattress.

He takes a moment to appreciate the lines of Cassian’s body: the taper of his waist, the roundness of his buttocks, the taut muscles of his thighs. He smooths a hand over Cassian’s back before moving it lower, circling the rim of his hole. He slips one finger in, working it back and forth, crooking the tip to play at the rim. Cassian takes him easily, but he goes slowly all the same.

Before long, Cassian hisses in frustration. “I don’t break.”

Except he does, from the looks of it he already has, and Han is holding a pile of jagged edges that are going to slice him up before the night is over.

Sighing, Han adds a second finger, then a third. He works him over with excruciating gentleness, taking even longer than he normally would. And yeah, some of that’s caution- no matter what he says or how hard he tries to deny it, Cassian is clearly a mess right now. But he can’t deny that part of him just loves the sight of Cassian twisting and whining beneath him, each crook of his fingers getting a breathy gasp and a shudder.

By the time Han finally judges him ready, Cassian is shaking, and bathed in sweat.

Han glances at the tremble in his arms and knees. “If you want to turn over-“

“Hurry the fuck up,” Cassian spits.

Okay then. Han shakes his head as he lines his cock up. Fuck, this whole thing is so weird. He presses the head of his cock against Cassian’s hole and nudges it forward. Even with the preparation, it’s a tight fit. He’s about to pull back and work over Cassian with his fingers some more, but Cassian is already pushing back, impaling himself a millimeter at a time.

Fuck, _fuck._ It’s perfection with a hint of pain, and for a moment all he can do is sit there and feel the feelings. His mouth falls open and his eyes fall shut. He rocks forward before he can help himself, driving a whimper from Cassian.

Beneath him, Cassian’s forehead is slick with sweat, hair sticking to it. His mouth has fallen open, he looks utterly debauched.

“Fuck,” Han whispers. He reaches out and tucks an errant strand of Cassian’s hair behind his ear.

Cassian starts like he’s forgotten Han was there, and the motion impales him another centimeter. He cries out, arching up on the bed, twisting his head to sink his teeth into the biggest bruise on his arm. Every line of his body is a study in desperation and lust mixed with pain. And still he’s thrusting himself back, quickly, too quickly. He’s going to hurt himself, and it’s going to be Han’s fault for letting him.

Han bites the inside of his cheek and with every bit of willpower he has, he reaches out to grab Cassian’s hips and hold them in place. “Slow down.”

“I can take it, Cassian says, “I need it,” and fuck: Han can tell from the keen of his voice that he’s crying again.

Something abruptly clicks in Han’s head. He reaches out, grabbing each of Cassian’s hands in his own and holding them down against the mattress. “No, he says quietly. “I’m not a damn stick for you to hit yourself with.”

Cassian lets out a frustrated sob. “Please, please-“

So Cassian wants Han to hurt him? Fine. Han forces Cassian’s hands down onto the mattress. “We’re doing this my way.”

This isn’t something Han has done before. Call him old fashioned, but as far as he’s concerned sex is supposed to be about making the other person feel good, having a bit of fun, and maybe soulfully staring into each other’s eyes- so he’s a bit of a romantic at heart, nothing wrong with that. But that’s not what Cassian wants.

Pain’s not the only way to torture someone. Sometimes gentleness works just as well

Han presses in slow, so slow he almost doesn’t have the patience for it himself. Even as Cassian complains and thrashes, trying to speed him up he’s implacable, his hands vises as he holds Cassian’s hands flat against the bed.

He bottoms out and pulls himself back before thrusting in again. The going is easier this time, enough that he can focus on how good it feels to be sheathed in the heat and the friction.

“Faster, I need-“ Cassian pants with a curse.

“No,” Han grunts, and pushes back in, implacable.

The cut on Cassian’s arm splits on the third thrust, and a bright line of blood wells from the scab. With a whine, Cassian brings it to his mouth, laves his tongue over the cut. He looks up at Han with a swipe of blood glittering on his lower lip, and fuck, that really shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

He leans over to capture Cassian’s mouth in a kiss, sucks the taste of the blood from his lips as he buries himself to the hilt once more.

They fuck like this to completion: every motion achingly slow, thrust after languid thrust as Cassian falls apart with need and frustration beneath Han. He falls to begging before long, but Han answers every entreaty and curse with a kiss and no mercy at all.

It’s Cassian that comes first, jerking like a marionette in his arms as he paints his own chest in stripes of white, head thrown back against Han’s chest, mouth wide in a silent scream.

Han comes a moment later: into the silence with a strangled cry, Cassian’s body twitching atop him in a mess of sweat and bruises.

***

After, Han gets up and rummages through the bathroom for a clean washcloth. He soaks it in the sink and wrings it out.

As he pads back to the bed, Cassian doesn’t look up. He’s curled in on himself, back facing Han. “You can go.”

“Mmm,” Han says. He sits down on the bed next to Cassian and smooths the washcloth over his back, gently mopping up the sweat glazing his shoulder blades. “Don’t want to.”

Cassian flinches at the first touch of the cloth but doesn’t pull away. He’s silent for a moment. “You _should_ go.”

“Probably,” Han agrees. He continues washing Cassian, taking care to avoid the worst of the cuts and bruises. “Do you want me to go?

Cassian doesn’t say anything. Han takes that as a victory.

After he’s done all he can with the cloth he lets it drop to the floor and lies back down on the bed, taking care not to jostle Cassian. He doesn’t touch him, just lies close enough that they can feel each other’s body heat and share it.

Cassian’s back is facing him. From here he can see the bruises better. He reaches out hesitantly, traces the outlines of each one as they spatter up his back in a diagonal line. The pattern takes him back to the worst jobs he’s pulled, the ones where things went so far south they might as well have been north again. “Hey,” he says quietly, “this is blaster fire.”

Cassian stiffens beneath his fingers. “We’re at war.”

He says it with such utter despair that the words almost hurt to hear, and Han can’t speak for a moment over the lump in his throat. He thinks of the joy of earlier in the night. It feels hollow now. “We’re winning,” he says.

Cassian rolls onto his back, staring up into the darkness. “So we are.”

And to that, Han has no idea what to say.


End file.
